Anapests and iambs create rising
rhythms, while trochees and dactyls undercut them by falling. —Prosody
handbook

At the crest of spring,
something hesitates:
the magnolias droop— petals, browbeaten
by relentless rain,
sink lethargically
to the short-haired lawn
spackling all of it
with unlikely snow—
pudgy, oversized
imitation flakes
manufacturing
their erotic stench,
thick and buttery
in the scented air—
bawdy versions of
the genteel clichés
May is famous for.

It’s a fact, my love:
rose and hyacinth
are a mere excuse,
just an overture
to the main event,
what
we’re falling for
at the crest of spring.